Obsession and Love
by Ada15
Summary: There is a difference. John loves Punk but there's someone else that may become a threat. Established John Cena/CM Punk.
1. Chapter 1

This is not character based. It is slash. I suppose it doesn't matter when its set seeing as how the storylines are not going to play a major part in this story so I guess I'd say this is set anytime after Punk came back from vacation.

I don't own anyone mentioned in this fic

Xxxxxxxx

"Dammit!"

The exclamation, which came from the man sitting to Kofi's left caused him to jump in surprise. The volume of it caused several of the other superstars in the room turn towards the man.

Almost warily, Kofi glanced towards his left. CM Punk was slumped low in his seat, feet outstretched before him and he was glaring…at his phone. Kofi eyed him a moment, considered whether or not he should say something. Punk had been mostly silent since they had made it to the arena and sat down to watch the start of the show. That, Kofi thought, never boded well.

Kofi had been traveling with Punk long enough to get a handle on the other man's moods and Punk had been in a particularly foul one since he'd gotten up that morning. It was strange. Not that Punk hadn't been in bad moods but the absolute fury he'd seen in Punk's eyes was not something he'd seen in a long time.

Kofi had no idea what would cause it now. The silence was what was really unnerving. Kofi had seen Punk angry, but he'd only ever seen the man go completely silent like this once, and that had been caused by his family.

"What's the matter with you? Have a fight with your girlfriend?" The man on the other side of Punk spoke up and Kofi turned his gaze on him. Chris Jericho, however, didn't seem all that concerned. Punk's head snapped up and he was practically shaking with the fury.

Kofi stilled. Usually, that sort of comment from Jericho, the insult to the _man _Punk was dating, would elicit a like response, leading both men to a session of traded insults that could last hours. Sometimes, Kofi was sure it was how both of them vented any frustration they might be feeling.

This time, however, Punk leaned closer to Jericho and the scowl on his face was not the normal mocking or teasing one he usually used on the older man. "Go _fuck yourself, _Jericho," he snarled before he stood so fast that the chair he'd been sitting in fell backwards and he stalked from the room.

Kofi watched him leave before turning back to Jericho. Chris didn't seem offended. Instead, Kofi saw the hint of concern in the man's eyes that he knew was shining in his own.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Punk breathed deeply, trying to calm the anger that had settled into his chest sometime after he'd gotten up that morning, the first time his phone had went off. He stood in the center of his locker room for a moment, grateful that the room had been empty when he'd arrived. He didn't think he could deal with anyone else at that moment.

After a moment, he sat on the carpeted floor, dropping his phone on the bench, and started his stretches. He was hoping that the familiar movements would help calm some of the volatile emotions that had been building in him since he'd woken up.

But when he closed his eyes even as he stretched his body, he still saw the pictures that had been sent to his phone and the rage wouldn't die. Fuck…he'd changed his number once already since the texts had started but somehow the fucker who had sent them had managed to get his new number. Disturbingly enough, he'd gotten more of them only a day after he'd gotten the new number.

_Which could mean it's someone in your contact list. _Punk gritted his teeth and tried to stop thinking about it. Which was more than a little difficult. Giving up, he reached for his phone again and went to his music. He dug ear buds out of his bag and turned the music up just shy of a painful level before continuing his stretches.

Xxxxxxxx

John was grinning as he walked into the room and immediately spotted Kofi, sitting next to Jericho in preparation of watching the beginning of the show. He'd come looking for someone else but figured Kofi would know where to find him.

"Hey, man," John greeted, plopping down in the chair next to Kofi.

"Hey," Kofi said, eyeing him. There was something about his expression, a wariness that almost made John's smile falter.

"What's wrong?"

Kofi and Chris exchanged a glance and John frowned. "Punk was here earlier," Kofi admitted finally.

John straightened; worry automatically forming in his chest. "And?"

"And…he wasn't…himself." Kofi glared at Chris when he snorted at that assessment.

"What? Anger is his default, isn't it?"

"Not like that," Kofi argued. He turned back to John. "Look, I don't know what's wrong with him. He's been pretty silent since we got here…."

"Alright," John said, with a sigh. "I'll go talk to him." He got up and started out of the room.

"Careful!" Chris called before he could make it out the door. "Might get something thrown at your head!"

John did not acknowledge that. Punk wouldn't actually attack him, at least not physically. He was sure of that. But Chris was right about one thing. Anger usually was Punk's default emotion and they'd had some spectacular fights as a direct cause of that. All verbal but Punk was very good at hitting a person where it counted with just a few words.

Still, John couldn't help the concern at Kofi's words, and at the look he'd seen on the man's face. Kofi wouldn't be concerned if this was just one of Punk's normal bad moods. And if Punk had really been silent since they'd arrived at the arena...

Punk was rarely silent. He usually had something to say about, well, _everything. _Sometimes, John was convinced, Punk talked just to hear himself talk. The worry John had been feeling only increased when he found Punk's locker room door open.

John stopped in the doorway for a moment, watching him. Punk was mid stretch. His abdomen was arched in a back bend that John would never be able to do himself, his feet pulled in as close to his head as he could get them. His shirt had ridden up, revealing trunks riding almost obscenely low on his hips and the bottom half of his stomach.

For several moments, John forgot everything else but how incredibly beautiful the man was. He knew it was an assessment that some would never make, what with the tattoos, the perpetual bags under his eyes, the nose that had obviously been broken more than once, and his usual state of dress but John thought those people were blind.

Of course, John _was _completely biased, seeing as how he was totally in love with the man. Punk didn't notice him until he came out of the stretch and he gave a start when he did, pulling out the ear buds and turning off the music.

"John," he greeted, sitting up cross-legged on the floor. His voice was controlled but John caught some of the anger that Kofi had told him about in his dark green eyes.

John closed the door before he dropped down on the floor as well. "Hey." He smiled, couldn't help himself. They'd been together for nearly a year and John still couldn't help the grin that wanted to bloom every time he saw Punk.

"What are you doing here?" Punk asked now, visibly making an effort to reign in his temper. "Thought you wanted to meet after your match?"

"Yeah but I talked to Kofi and Chris before and they said-"

"They said? They should mind their own damn business," the words were bitter and a scowl formed on Punk's face.

"Kofi's one of your best friends," John pointed out, a reprimand in his own voice, which only made Punk's scowl deepen. "He's worried."

"I'm fine." He practically hissed the words and his jaw clenched.

"Sure you are," John said skeptically. He watched as Punk seemed to fight with himself for a moment, and his worry spiked up even further.

"Phil." John reached over grabbing the man's wrists. Punk stilled at the sound of his real name. He'd told John he could use it a long while ago and John had been beyond happy about that. It was an extremely personal thing for Punk and John knew that only people he considered family called him by his real name. Consequently, John only used it when they were alone together…just because it did feel personal.

"_I'm _worried," he stated, his gaze turning imploring. Punk sighed and John watched as some of his anger drained away. "Please tell me what's going on with you."

Punk hesitated again, but most of his anger had died when he spoke. "I'm okay. I'm just…my heads just fucking with me today."

John frowned, not sure if he could believe that. He did know that that was a problem sometimes with Punk. He had never been the most popular guy in the locker room, and his parents had totally fucked him over when he was a kid and John knew that, no matter how many times he claimed he didn't care about that crap, that it sometimes still got to him.

It was part of the reason why Punk was so motivated, so driven, and a bit of a workaholic. It was why he sometimes went on crazy diets and could be an abrasive asshole at times. John searched his expression for a moment but said nothing else. If that wasn't the only reason, and if John pushed him too much, it was likely to turn into a fight. Sometimes, John was willing to risk that. Sometimes, it was the only way he could get Punk to tell him what was wrong. But that was usually a last resort.

Instead, he pulled Punk closer by his wrists, into a kiss. Punk leaned into it, sliding into John's lap easily. When he pulled back, John wished he had the time before his match to do more.

"I have to go get ready," he said, with some regret but Punk simply nodded, leaning down for another kiss before getting off of John. "I'll be back later."

"Sure."

John hesitated at the door, but the end left with the uncomfortable feeling that something was _wrong_, something more than just the normal crap that Punk usually had to deal with.

Xxxxxxxxx

The uplift in Punk's mood, even if it wasn't total, caused by John's presence only lasted about ten minutes after John had left the room. He'd run through the rest of his stretches and tried keeping his mind on John instead of the texts. It helped, some.

Then his phone had gone off. He reached for it and knew, when he saw that there was no name or number listed, that this was another one. He probably shouldn't have even opened it but paused. He hadn't deleted any of the messages so far. He'd kept them all for the simple reason that he still wanted to find out who was sending them and kick their ass. Plus, there was a small, rational, voice in the back of his mind that reminded him that he'd need the evidence if he ever decided to tell anyone about it.

When he opened the message this time, though, the fury from before came back full force and he almost felt sick. It was a drawing of him in a very compromising position. Just resisting the urge to shatter his phone against the wall, he tossed it aside instead, watched as it bounced against the carpet and stood.

He had an hour until his match started. He really needed to find a way to blow off some steam.


	2. Chapter 2

_They followed you home. _Punk was shaking slightly as he stared at the picture of himself, coming out of his house. He squeezed his phone before standing, pacing a bit. This was getting ridiculous. But it was just pictures and text messages for now.

For a moment, he thought about changing his number again, and even wiping out his contact list except for the people he absolutely knew wouldn't be doing something like this but shook his head. That was stupid, and it probably wouldn't even matter.

He kind of hated himself for the nervousness that had him pacing the floor. It settled in on him alongside the anger, and he scowled but couldn't seem to help it. When a hand landed on his shoulder, he actually jumped and turned to John.

"What the fuck, John? You don't knock?" He blurted out before he could stop himself.

"I did knock," John stated with a raised eyebrow, dropping his arm to his side, blue eyes concerned. "You didn't answer."

"Right." Punk sat down again but not before switching off his phone. He didn't look up to meet John's eyes, instead dug in his bag for his wrist tape so he could finish getting ready.

"What's wrong?" John asked, still standing.

"Nothing," Punk answered automatically, angry with himself again for being so damn jumpy and nervous. He really hated that feeling.

"Right. Nothing." John's tone was skeptical. He sat down. "You know…even Randy can tell something's wrong," he pointed out.

Punk scowled at that and regretted even more the stupid, childish argument he'd gotten into with Orton earlier that very day that had ended with him letting out a few too heated words. He wasn't even sure what the argument had started about. He'd never understand exactly why Randy and John were such good friends. They were completely different people. Then again so were he and John.

John, who was so fucking happy all the time. Who could laugh off nearly anyone's reaction to him. Whose anger was usually the righteous kind, not the misplaced kind. Who could forgive him, Punk was thoroughly convinced, just about anything.

John was one of the best people Punk had ever met. He was loyal to a fault and _always _gave people the benefit of the doubt. He was also one of the most stubborn people he'd ever met. Punk figured that was one of the reasons they were still together.

"Hey," John called, brining him out of his thoughts as he reached over, grabbed Punk's arm lightly, just above the wrist tape and Punk glanced up at him warily. John studied his expression for a moment and then sighed. "Before it gets bad?"

Punk blinked, and nodded, wondered when they'd stopped needing full sentences for stuff like this, remembered that those were the same words John had used last time. _You'll tell me before it gets really bad?_

"Yeah," he finally answered, a promise in the one word that he wasn't sure he should keep. John watched him a few more seconds before letting his arm go and nodding, accepting it.

_It was just a few texts. _There was really no reason to tell John yet. Especially since John was likely to flip out about it. Still, it was just a few texts with pictures attached and no matter how pissed he was about it, he couldn't actually deny how much they disturbed him.

He was also aware that John would only let it go for so long. He needed to find out who was sending the messages. _Before _something else happened.

Xxxxxxx

The lockers rattled with the force of the move when John slammed the smaller man in his arms against the wall. Punk was still in his wrestling gear but didn't protest when John turned him to face the wall. One of his hands went between Punk and the wall, trailing downward. He stuck the fingers of his free hand in his mouth, slicking them before he stuck the same hand down the back of Punk's trunks.

Punk arched against him when he pressed one finger inside of the smaller man. Their movements were fast, almost feverish and John yanked both his shorts and Punk's trunks down and he plunged inside of Punk.

Punk reached back with one hand, gripping John's neck even as he met John's movements. John loved the noises Punk was making, loved the fact that, like this, he could make the normally articulate and verbose man completely incoherent. He loved the feel of being inside of the man.

"Come on, Phil." John grinned, picked up his pace even further and quickly brought them both over the edge. Afterwards, he very nearly collapsed against Punk's back with a sigh but did not lose his grip on the man, even when Punk turned to face him. His cheeks were still flushed but he was grinning.

"Shower?"

"Definitely," John said with an answering grin of his own. He pulled the man into a brief kiss. "You know, as pre-match rituals go, I could get used to this one."

Punk snorted, pulling John towards the showers. "Post-match too?" John still had his own match at the end of the night. Theirs had been separated by at least an hour but Punk had dragged him into this encounter as soon as his own match was over.

John had his suspicions that it hadn't been about the normal lust that flared whenever they were alone together, that Punk had been looking for a distraction. From what, John still didn't know. It was often frustrating when Punk wouldn't tell him exactly what was wrong but he had promised to if whatever it was got worse and John would hold off on pressing him about it for a little longer, at least until he thought he had to.

"I think I'll be up for it," John said, with a smirk. He tried to push aside the worry, at least for the moment, and let Punk pull him into the showers.

Xxxxxxxxx

Contentment was not something he was used to feeling. He could admit that he wasn't the most optimistic person in the world. Nor was he the nicest. He'd heard on too many occasions how hard it was to get along with him and he'd developed a reputation of being one of the biggest assholes in the backstage area.

But when Punk opened his phone, glanced at the new message he missed it. It was a brief flash of a feeling. One brought on by the fact that he maybe had been content before. Happy, even. His career was the best it had been since he'd left Ring of Honor and his personal life was in a better place than it had been in years as well.

He _was _happy with John. Happier than he had been with anybody else. And the last couple of years, his career in WWE had changed so drastically, for the better. Maybe he should have expected something to happen, something to interfere with that.

He sighed and threw his phone in his bag before slinging it over his shoulder and moving towards the door. Six years of getting shoved down repeatedly by the WWE brass had turned him into just a bit of a pessimist but he'd also learned a long time ago to enjoy the good things while they lasted. And if the results of his almost departure from the WWE had taught him anything it was that quitting was never the best option.

His fist clenched as he thought about it. He was going to find who was sending those messages. And he was not going to let whoever it was screw with his life.

Xxxxxxxx

John let out a groan when he finally made it back to the hotel. He'd had a late night and the dark match he'd participated in after RAW had gone off the air hadn't exactly been easy on his body. He reflected idly that he may have been getting old, that he wasn't bouncing back quite as quickly as he would have a few years ago.

It was good to see the younger guys catching a break but he still couldn't help but be just a little bit envious when he spotted one of them bouncing on the balls of their feet with what should have been unnatural energy after spending nearly a half hour in the ring with him.

When he finally got his hotel room open, he was greeted with a rare sight. Punk was on his side, asleep. The cover was up to his chin but even so, John could tell that his knees were pulled up close to his chest. It was a quirk that had John stopping short, and staring at him, worried.

It was a strange little quirk that Punk seemed to fall into when something was wrong. The habit of taking up the least amount of space available when he was sleeping. It was something he did when he was upset, not just angry. Upset and unwilling to admit it.

It was unusual, given how incredibly vocal Punk could be when angry that he could be so reticent when it came to other, even less pleasant, emotions.

_Something was wrong. _John watched him, the feeling of unease coming back strong. And it was strange, wasn't it? That he should be more worried now, while watching Punk sleep than he had been over the insomnia that normally plagued the man.

But John was pretty sure he had gotten a handle on Punk's often strange coping methods when something happened. Chris had been right, Punk's default was often anger but there were other signs too, other signs that John had learned to pick up on that would tell him that maybe Punk wasn't simply pissed off about something.

He was picking up on some of those now.

With a sigh, John stripped down to his boxers and got into bed as quietly as he could. He didn't reach for Punk, knew that if he did, the other man would wake with a jerk and he really did need the sleep.

His resolve not to push the subject weakened a bit as he took in the frown that had formed on Punk's face, even in his sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"Maybe I should go with you." John made the suggestion as they walked down the hall of the arena towards the locker rooms. It wasn't the first time and Punk only rolled his eyes.

"Thought we already talked about this."

They had. Punk was right. It still didn't make the pit that had formed in John's stomach leave. "I just think-"

"Don't take this the wrong way, John," Punk cut him off. "But if you don't go home, I _might_ hurt you." The threat was idle but it still made John frown.

"You really that eager to get rid of me?"

"Just not looking forward to getting death threats from your family because they haven't seen you in months."

"My family wouldn't do that," John protested but the fight had left his voice. Punk _was _right. They'd been traveling together, living together basically for months and he hadn't gone home in a while. His parents, in particular, weren't too happy about that.

Still, the bad feeling he'd had since he'd found Punk curled up on his side in that hotel bed had only gotten worse since. Punk had been increasingly moody and distracted since and still refused to tell John what was wrong.

But, who knew? Maybe it'd be a good thing for Punk to spend the next couple of days at his home in Chicago. Maybe one of his sisters or friends could get whatever was wrong out of him. John had witnessed firsthand how deft some of them were in dealing with Punk when something was going on he didn't want to talk about.

John felt no jealousy at this. They both had people they were more comfortable talking to about some things. Punk's friends were his family, in the same way that John's parents and brothers were his.

"Fine. But you're calling every day," John demanded. He didn't care if he sounded like he was nagging.

Punk snorted. "Sure thing, Mother."

There was humor shining in his eyes and John couldn't help but to grin. When they'd made it inside his locker room, he reached out, looping his fingers in Punk's belt and pulling him close.

"You know, we don't technically have to get ready for at least a half hour."

Punk laughed and shook his head. "Again?"

"Can't help it," John said, gripping Punk's waist with his free hand.

"Well, if you're going to start something…"

"Definitely."

Xxxxxxxx

Punk sighed and sat down on the floor as soon as John had left. He'd gotten his phone out but hadn't bothered to look at the two new texts flashing unread on the screen. For a minute, he rolled it in his hands.

He was aware that John was worried, aware that he wasn't acting exactly normal which was why he'd tried for that. At least he was pretty sure John wouldn't be pressing him on it until after their days off.

Punk bounced his head off the door several times as he thought about it. He'd gone through his contacts too many times already, trying to figure out who was doing it but he'd come up empty. He needed to do something about it, preferably before John found out.

He'd been considering one option for the last several days even if it left a bad taste in his mouth and John was going to be _pissed_.

Xxxxxxxx

The office door was open when Punk arrived and he leaned against the frame, arms crossed as he watched the older man sitting behind the computer. A smirk formed on his face when he caught the reflection of the computer screen in the window behind him.

"Boss know you're playing games on company time?" He asked, his smirk widening when the man jumped and then looked up to glare at him.

"Not on company time," Hunter said but he did close the laptop, forcefully. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"So much hostility. Here I thought were had bonded over the last couple of years." He pushed off from the frame, only to close the door and make his way over to drop down in the chair across from Hunter.

"Only you would call a constant barrage of traded insults _bonding." _The man rolled his eyes.

"Hey, I gotta know who can keep up with me."

"Yeah, well, if I get more complaints about you and Jericho, I'm going to have a problem. Every new person we hire seems automatically convinced that the two of you are going to end up _actually_ beating the crap out of each other."

"It's not my fault people can't take a joke," Punk countered with a huff.

"A joke?" Hunter asked with a raised eyebrow.

Punk shrugged, unwilling to concede the point because it was stupid. He and Jericho had never had an actual fight. Jericho was just fun to taunt because the man gave as good as he got and never let it get under his skin.

"What do you want? I doubt you came here for a social call."

Punk hesitated but that was true. He and Hunter had formed a sort of truce since their storylines back at the end of 2011 but he'd always held a natural dislike for the upper management and Hunter had become that ever since Vince had started to take a step back.

But he could admit that Hunter was the only one he even close to trusted. Still, it was…difficult to get the words out.

"I need your help," he grumbled finally.

Both of Hunter's eyebrows shot up. "That's a first," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Don't rub it in," Punk snapped, digging in his pocket for his phone. "And I want your word that you're not going to tell anyone else in the company about this."

"About what?" Now Hunter was frowning. Not surprising. Hunter wasn't exactly the first person Punk usually went to with his problems. But he needed someone with resources, someone who knew everyone in the company, and he sure as hell wouldn't trust Vince with something like this.

"I need your word," Punk stressed, glaring at the man. "I can't have this getting out. Not now."

Hunter hesitated for a moment before finally nodding. "Alright."

Opening the folder on his phone where he'd kept all those texts, he handed it over. Hunter scrolled through them and Punk watched as his expression darkened a little more at every one. When he finally reached the last one, he was scowling.

"You should go to the cops," he said immediately.

Punk scoffed. "And tell them what? That some unknown person is sending me texts from some unknown number? Even if I knew who it was, all they'd suggest is a restraining order."

"And what do you think I can do?"

"Look, you know everyone in the company. A hell of a lot better than I do, too. I'm not as hated backstage as I used to be but people still generally keep their distance because apparently they think I'm hard to get along with."

"Wonder what would make them think that."

"I think it's someone in my contact list," Punk snapped, his temper flaring at the remark. "I need to find out who."

"Alright. I'll look into it. But I still think you should go to the police." He held up a hand when Punk made to protest. "This crap needs to be on record. That way, when we do find out who it is…"

Punk grumbled a bit more. "I'll think about it."

Hunter frowned darkly at him and if Punk hadn't known any better, he would have said he saw concern in the man's eyes. "You should also think about not going anywhere alone. We could hire-"

"I'm not getting a fucking bodyguard," Punk hissed. "I can take care of myself."

"Then why come to me?" Punk scowled and Hunter nodded. "Look, if not a bodyguard then you should have someone with you. This shit is serious."

"Yeah, I got that." Punk stood, started towards the door.

"You tell Cena?"

Punk stopped but only sighed, unable to even fake surprise that Hunter knew. "Just…keep it quiet will you?"

"Might want to tell him soon," Hunter called. Punk waved over his shoulder on the way out.

Xxxxxxxx

Punk had been out all day with friends, walking out of a diner when his phone went off again. He considered ignoring it. He'd been doing that all day. But for some reason, didn't this time. When he opened the messages and saw the pictures there, he froze in his tracks.

They were all from that day. Him, out with his friends, with his sisters. His grip tightened on the phone as he scrolled through the proof that someone had followed him back to Chicago, that someone had been following him almost all day.

"Shit."

He put a hand on his forehead, raking it back and not even noticing when his hat fell to the ground. The rage was there, building up until he was almost shaking where he stood. It took him several minutes to start moving again and when he did, he broke into a run, heading for his house.

His door was unlocked. It was the first thing he noted when he got back. But he wasn't thinking. The rage was mixed in with other things now but he was so pissed off that he hardly felt the fear that probably should have been prominent in that moment.

There were pictures of his sisters, of his family.

So, he swung the door open, stepped inside. The mess in the living room registered in a way that did nothing to add to any sort of fear or caution, only added to the anger. He wasn't a picture hanging type of guy, had very few framed but he did have them.

Now, they were out of the drawers he usually kept them in, or at least some of them were. Punk recognized the ones. All of them used to be of him and John. Now, John was cut out and that did not help Punk's thought process.

He reached to the side slowly, his fingers curling around the baseball bat leaning against the wall. He went on a search, tearing through every room in his house.

It was only after he'd found no one there, only after he'd stopped back into the living room and really looked at the mess that the fear started to outweigh the anger. Not fear for himself, even. But someone had taken a lot of time doing this, risked getting caught in the act just to be thorough about it.

And as his thoughts finally started back towards rational, he couldn't help but to wonder if it was a threat. With shaking hands, he finally pulled his phone back out.

Xxxxxx

John was just getting back inside his hotel room when his phone rang. He was still smiling while he dug it out of his pocket. It was nice, being able to see his family again. When he saw the caller id, his smile grew and he kicked his door closed before making his way over to the mini-fridge.

"Hey," he answered brightly. "How was it?" He'd known Pun had plans with his sisters, and then his friends.

"_Fine." _

"Just fine?" John pressed, dropping back on his bed after grabbing a drink.

"_Yeah." _There was a pause on the other end. "_Where are you?" _

"Uh…hotel room. Why?" John sat up again, his smile turning to a frown. There was something off about Punk's tone.

"_Hotel room? I thought you were staying at your parents?" _

"Change of plans. What's wrong?"

"_I just…I wanted to…" _Punk's tone was hesitant, unsure and that made John's frown deepen. He'd rarely ever heard Punk sound unsure of himself.

"What's wrong, Phil?" He pressed.

"_I just…" _There was another silence, longer this time and the next words Punk said had John's stomach churning in concern. "_I'm sorry." _

"Sorry about what?"

"_I…I can't tell you about this over the phone." _

"Bad?"

_"Yeah…yeah, I think so."_

_Shit. _John sighed. Then it was really bad. If Punk was calling him. If John didn't have to pull it out of him. The decision wasn't difficult.

"I'm on the next flight."

"_John_…" The almost strangled quality of his voice only confirmed that that decision was the right one.

"The next flight, Phil. I'll be there."

He heard Punk sigh. "_Alright." _

That Punk didn't fight him on it, at all, only made him worry more.

Xxxxxxxxx

It was only a two hour flight but it was also late at night when Punk called. He'd had to wait and by the time it had taken to book one, get to it, get off, and then navigate the traffic in Chicago; John was so antsy he was practically vibrating. His parents had understood, or at least his mom had. She'd always liked Punk and his "straight forward manner" as she'd put it.

Punk opened the door almost immediately when John made it to his house. "Hey," he said in greeting. He didn't smile, or pull John into a kiss like he normally would have. Instead he took a step back to let John inside.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked, the anxiety he'd been feeling since Punk's call making him forego any greetings at all.

Punk didn't answer in words. Instead, he led John into the living room, where he stopped short. The place was a bit of a mess, pictures scattered all over the floor. John recognized them instantly because he had copies of most of them himself. They were all of him and Punk. Except in the ones on Punk's floor, his face was cut out of all of them.

"Phil, what-"

But Punk held up a hand, and then handed over his phone. John took it, studying his boyfriend for a moment before turning his attention to the device. Punk had opened it to a folder full of texts. When John opened them, his insides seemed to freeze.

They started out as love notes. Some just declarations, some badly written poetry. Then there were pictures. Pictures of Punk backstage, pictures of him out to eat, out with his friends. Pictures of him coming out of his house. Drawings of him in compromising positions.

The anger that sparked in John's chest built as he read through them, until he was actually breathing hard. When Punk spoke next, his voice sounded almost muted.

"Called the cops last night after you. And I already told Hunter. He's…looking into it."

"Looking into it," John repeated. He voice shook with the fury. "But you didn't see the need to tell me."

"I am telling you," Punk pointed out.

"Now. After some asshole broke into your house."

"John-"

"_Before it gets bad, _right?!" John's arms dropped to his sides and his fist clenched around Punk's phone. "Somebody's _stalking _you! What were you going to do if this," he pointed to the pictures, "hadn't happened? Just waited until some asshole attacked you?!"

Punk's eyes flashed. "I can take care of myself."

"Right. Of course you can." John scrubbed a hand over his face several times, tried to calm down. "You don't know who?"

Punk eyed him almost warily, probably expected more of a fight. "Not yet."

John nodded, pacing a bit. "You should have told me, before this."

"…Sorry."

John paused, a little surprised. Even if it was half hearted, it was still an apology. And he realized that Punk wouldn't have called him, wouldn't have called the cops and especially Hunter if it wasn't freaking him out.

John reached for him, pulled him close, into his arms.

"John." Punk sighed. "Look, I'm not-"

"I know," John cut him off, knew that Punk would never want to admit that it did freak him out, that it made him anything other than angry too. Still, he wrapped his arms around John in response.

John squeezed him tighter. He'd never been a violent person. He could act like one on television. He could pretend in front of a crowd but he hadn't gotten into an actual fight in years. But whoever was doing this…whoever was sending those messages to Punk…

He'd never wanted to hurt anyone so badly in his life.


End file.
